Jolly
by optimise
Summary: one night can mean a lot for eight different couples. a series of Christmas one-shots. Muggle AU. includes theo/luna, harry/pansy, millicent/ron, ginny/cormac, katie/marcus, draco/hermione, colin/parvati, and neville/blaise.
1. theo x luna

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* * *

 **theodore nott x luna lovegood**

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 _"Little Drunken Boy"_

 _by optimise_

* * *

He wonders how he found himself in this position — bright-eyed and half-sloshed on apricot flavoured brandy and mid-groan — while digging through the hummus and peeled carrot platter with palpable interest, at best.

Theodore Nott was not one of those people who attended Christmas parties. Or any parties for that matter. Too many piss drunk people getting sick all over the Persian imported rugs, too many half-hearted attempts at mingling, and too much fucking hand-made decor that makes him feel the need to vomit or gouge his eyes out with those ribbon-wrapped, tiny fucking toothpicks staked on sour pineapple platters.

So, as he's mid-dip into the chilli speckled hummus with his half-bitten carrot ( _yes_ , he's a double dipper, sue him), Theo ponders how much force it would take to chuck himself off the wobbly coffee table with enough power mustered to break a leg or bruise his eye or something of the sort. At this point, he would do anything — _no_ , really, _anything_ — to get him the hell out of Draco's 'Merrily, Berrily, Christmas Bonanza Bash' with half his mind still intact — and before Blaise makes another appearance in his birthday suit midway through the party.

It's the same fucking thing year after year, he supposes. The stupidly ornate Christmas soiree at Malfoy's way-too-fucking-pretentious and way-too-fucking-big-for-one-man house. Like clockwork, almost, the way that Draco sends a holiday card wishing everyone well — and an exclusive invite to his once a year party to get smashed under the excuse of celebrating a holiday for the birth of Jesus. Except this time the self-proclaimed ladies' man sent the holiday card beside his girlfriend of eleven months' name, Hermione fucking Granger.

He thinks the couple hosting the party are already off ripping each others' clothes off in some dark and dank closet — one of many in this enormously sized penthouse — because they're nowhere in sight. Not that Theo's actively searching for them — those two are way too touchy feely and cuddly wuddly and handsy for his taste. He's not bitter about losing his best blond friend to a short, feisty woman with a weird fucking fetish for helping three-legged dogs and freeing abused elephants in the goddamn circus. Nope. Not bitter at all.

Theo takes a hearty bite of the carrot dolloped in hummus, chewing way too vigorously for a _not_ bitter man, before scanning around the humungous parlour room, which was dimly light with the auburn burnt crystal chandelier, hanging directly over Theo's head. Maybe if he rattled the walls enough, the Christmas miracle of the glass slamming into his already pounding head would come true. Maybe. He would take the chance.

He stands up a little too excitedly, getting ready to fist the wall with closed palms before a small voice from behind him stops him in his tracks.

"Lovely wallpaper, isn't it?" the voice — a girl's voice — says with a wistful glance behind him.

Theo, gaping and blinking furiously, sets his fist down, turning around with a look he deems innocent enough for the occasion.

A blonde, dressed in the most vibrant peachy coral dress down to mid-calf, raises her eyebrows, glances between his white-knuckled hand and the wall with mild interest.

"If you like the virgin grandmother look, I guess," Theo says, rubbing sheepishly at his neck. Then he clears his throat, loosening the snowman tie that adorned his crisp cut collared shirt. The Christmas themed article of clothing seems too petulant to make a good impression at this point.

"I like it," the girl replies, smiling dreamily, before stepping forward immediately, running the back of her knuckles on the wall.

There's a brief thought running through his now fiercely pounding head that tells him he'd like her knuckles running across his back, but Theo quickly shoos it to the back of his mind before his cock gets the same thoughts with renewed interest.

"Great party, don't you think?" the girl asks, her fingers drumming small taps along the ugly vintage and vomit-inducing beige floral walls. "Draco Malfoy has a very quaint home."

"It's utter rubbish, really, how much he loves this place of his — in all its old money glory," Theo replies, stiffly stuffing his fists in the pockets of his ironed scarlet grey trousers.

"Mm," the girl hums, smiling almost predatorily, with way too much teeth. "I'm Luna. Like moon, but in Latin because my father hates the way English sounds bitter on his tongue. He describes it almost tangy, but not quite salty, you know?"

Theo tries to smile, but it comes out as a close-mouthed grimace. It's tight and sloppy and very objectively gross, he thinks, but Luna grins back anyways.

"Theodore," he offers back, using his full name in what seems like for-fucking-ever — even though he hates the familial name passed down from his father and grandfather and great-grandfather — because he can tell that she's one for brief formalities and distinguished meanings and kind of teddy-bear sounding names.

She sits down — gracefully in one fluid motion — on the velvet cushioned couch then, crossing her legs and blinking up at him. Theo repeats her movement, taking the seat next to her; he can feel her flushed warmth and smell her cider perfume and see her milky and blue-veined wrists.

And he almost wants to touch her then — just to feel something tangible running under his fingertips — or pull Draco out of that hidden closet mid-shag to kiss him fully on the lips for inviting him to his Christmas party this year. Either one would work.

"Do you like jazz?" she questions, staring straight at his pale blue eyes without a quiver of fear shivering through her bones.

Theo laughs, an honest one for the first time all night, and it sounds right coming out of his throat. "Love it."

"Me too."

She proceeds to discuss the _absolutely essential_ difference between a blaring trumpet and a brassy french horn for the rest of the night.

Theo doesn't mind. Nope. Not one bit.

* * *

 _a/n: is it too early for holiday stories lol_


	2. harry x pansy

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* * *

 **harry potter x pansy parkinson**

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 _"What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?"_

 _by optimise_

* * *

"Stop fucking _talking_ so I can focus on getting your fucking zipper _open_ , Potter," Pansy crassly hisses, the taste of bitter dark cherry chocolate still swirling around her gums from the one sloppy open-mouthed kiss he just planted on the corner of her mouth, his tongue shoving his way down her throat.

It only took about a minute of tumbling through the navy-painted and gold-encrusted doorway of the fifth room on the first floor before Potter finally got his trousers undone and his crinkled maroon top (a pitiful attempt at holiday cheer, _really_ ) over his perpetually messy and tousled hair.

Pansy just wants to _eat him up_ from the look of him — dark and lean and kind of lanky, but absolutely delicious; and yes, Pansy _would_ know. Her eyes glaze over with another round of those 'fuck me eyes' that Potter deemed once after they were both sated and exhausted and panting for breath on the floor of the bathroom at Ginny Weasley's birthday party.

Potter hiccups while attempting to lean forward and kiss her again, and Pansy gets lost in his taste — all musky and crisp and fragrant — against her coercing lips. She moans into his open mouth, searching for his tongue to battle as his trembling hands go to the zipper of her silver-gemmed pencil skirt.

And when his big hands finally touch her bare skin, all previous hesitation gets shoved out the door, past the barriers of her heart. It's all silky caresses with calloused hands and long drawn-out groans underneath lips on lips. And legs tangled till one can't be identified from another.

Don't get her wrong. They fit like puzzle pieces jammed together by an inapt toddler with chubby fingers. But, she thinks in some world — far, _far_ away from the one they're living in — they're together in some sense. Like souls branded for each other. Connected in some way. The mere thought is sappy and mushy and she'd rather be caught dead in an tangerine halter top without a bra like the fucking _Spice Girls_ or drink extremely watered down chai lattes for the rest of her life than _ever_ be known to think _that_.

But her icicle of a heart has been known to melt to sharp slush just from a sultry or pouty or melancholy look from his luscious green eyes. Occasionally. Maybe once or twice.

"Parkinson?" Potter asks between exhales as he rests his forehead on her shoulder, his dank breath mingling with her beaded perspiration.

She flutters her eyes shut and hums out a brief groan in response for him to continue on.

"There's this New Year party thing at my house next week," Potter starts. He pauses and inhales sharply. "It'd be cool if you came or something."

Pansy freezes under his lanky body and her hands begin to grip the silk sheets under her fists in tiny clumps of irresolution. "As friends?"

He lifts his head from the crook of her neck, leaving a frigid blast of air to send goose flesh running down her spine. A small, wry grimace appears on his face in the most inopportune of moments, and he licks his chapped cherry lips twice.

"No," he breathes out. The words sound like daggers. Barbaric, cruel, cold, clenching, furious, degrading, vicious, bitter _daggers,_ taken straight at the heart.

Pansy gnaws nervously at her mouth before pursing her smudged scarlet lips. "Can't. I have plans."

She doesn't even attempt to hide the anger laced in her words, and on instinct, her eyebrows raise in a manner clearly asking him to retaliate. Pansy had always been good at this — cutting down people with words and gestures until they reached her level. It's a little thing she picked up from years of watching her mother let a plethora of guys wanting to rob her of her virtue with no qualms. And doing it to Potter made the treat all the more sweet.

There's a flash of what seemed like disappointment etched on his face, and Potter finally rolls off her body. All Pansy feels is cold. And cold. And cold.

"I was hoping we could go as more than friends," Potter whispers into the white of the night.

Pansy blanches and refuses to look at him, scared of seeing something she doesn't want to. She blinks furiously before saying in a baffled tone, " _What_?"

"Maybe we could go as _more than_ friends." A long pause. "It's not different, really. I would just be able to hold your hand whenever I wanted, and you could kiss me without the fear of people judging us. And we can have sex without having to make plans for it. And when people ask if this is real — if _we're_ real — I wouldn't have any hesitation in saying the word I so want to say. Yes."

For most of her life, Pansy never believed in the mushy myth that someone's heart could actually stop, turn in on itself, and be so close to heaving out of one's chest just from the words of a boy. And for the first time, she finds herself to be wrong.

Her pulse is throbbing at the base of her neck. And that's when she knows.

It's more than _this_ , she realises. _They're_ more than hidden shags in pitch-black room and sultry smirks across the room. Months of fucking behind everyone's backs became so much more, so so so much more. Of course, Pansy has tried to push that guttural feeling that could only be explained as a crush to the back of her mind when she watches his eyes crinkle with crow's feet every time he laughs full-heartedly or when she blushes every time they talk about nonsensical things after the sex part of _whatever_ they were.

But, here Potter was — defining their relationship, for real this time. A slow, sensual warmth rises to surround the butterflies in her stomach. She doesn't ignore it.

"If you ever try to get that sappy again, Potter," Pansy warns, gulping down the lodge in her throat. "I'll dump your arse before you can even _think_ the word 'SORRY.'"

And this time, when Potter cages her in with his lean arms, towering over her with a wide smile and sparkling green eyes, Pansy lets out a watery laugh. And this time, when Harry kisses her till her toes curl in and her nose tingles red, Pansy responds with feverish intentions and passionate nips.

And this time, when Harry strokes her cheeks and caresses her pink flesh and trails his calloused hands down the valleys of her chest, it's because they're together.

They're _together_.

It doesn't sound as wrong as Pansy once thought.

* * *

 _a/n:_ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	3. millicent x ron

. . .

* * *

 **millicent bulstrode x ron weasley**

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 _"Get Lost, Little Ronald Frost"_

 _by optimise_

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Millicent attempts to conceal her sadness — runny nose and trails of glossy tears — with clumped up tissues before her way too fucking expensive mascara begins to run down her cheeks. Leave it to Malfoy to have three marble water basins and a plethora of three-ply tissues in his main bathroom — not that Millicent minds because to be honest, the lavender scented and purple tinted tissues are the only thing keeping her together. Like glue to her cracks.

Even after years of self-evaluation and telling herself it _doesn't fucking matter_ when other people linger their gaze too long on her chocolate cake-smeared hands or purse their lips when she takes two pieces of rosemary roasted chicken instead of one, a single comment ruins her. _Only one_ off-hand comment from the perfectly skinny and scantily dressed and vermillion lipped Pansy Parkinson was enough to release a whole new wave of confidence issues past the barriers of Millicent's well fortified wall — or at least, what she _thought_ to be fortified.

But now, as her sobs grew to bloody wails and her fingers clenched at the ice blue flared skirt that her mother bought her because ' _it would be perfect to hide that tummy of yours, Milly_ ', Millicent knew all of the confidence was a lie, a goddamn lie. One she told herself whenever she compared her body to curvy and leggy girls like Daphne Greengrass or daintily small girls like Hermione Granger.

She barely knows why she came to this party — because she understands that she only got an invitation was because she went to boarding school with Malfoy years and years ago and their parents work together under his father's company so it's practically _required_ for her to be a part of his circle of friends. It's still a mistake. Everything is a fucking mistake.

School days were spent ignoring the snickers of Pansy and Daphne through their perfectly manicured hands. And now her adult days were spent pleasing a crowd who'd rather cut off their own toes and eat them with tartar sauce than let her into their inner circle of cronies.

Her hands are furiously slamming open drawers, searching for a hand towel among all the pale pink seashell carved soaps and vibrant indigo bath fizzies — because who knew that the owner of the house was a sissy with a fervent appreciation for bubble baths.

Between another loud sniffle and muffled sob and pointed jut of her chin, Millicent hears a faint sound of knocking outside the door, only providing flames to her fire.

"Go away, for fuck's sake!" Millicent yelled out, not caring that her voice came out shaky and hoarse, courtesy of her crying.

"Uh, Millicent?" came the bumbling buffoon's voice of Ron Weasley from outside. "I need to take a piss."

"Go use the kitchen sink for all I care," Millicent retorted, furiously scrubbing at the signs of sadness on her face till it was raw. "Can't you hear that I'm a little bit busy?"

"Er. . ."

"Weasley, get a dictionary or some common sense before you feel the need to intrude on a girl in the middle of sobbing her bloody eyes out."

"You're crying?" He sounds surprise and a bit uncomfortable at the notion. She wouldn't be surprised if he began to hurl — he seemed like one of those kind of boys, the ones totally allergic to emotions. "I — I, uh, am sorry about that."

"Are you seriously apologising about me crying through a door?" Millicent retorts — her tongue all sass and no regret, a thing she picked up from her mother's condescending remarks about Millicent's dressing choices. "Don't you have anything better to do, Weasley? Like maybe mope around some more because your favourite football team is on a losing streak?"

"Hey! There's no need to insult—"

"Does it seem like I give a rat's arse about your team?"

"Well, _no_ , but—"

"Leave."

" _But_ —"

"I mean it."

"Open the door, Bulstrode."

"Are you mute _and_ deaf?"

"No, not either of those," came the muffled sound of his voice. " _But_ once my pen leaked and smudged while I was in the middle of writing my final essay, and the Professor thought my name was 'Roonil Wazlib'. So, you _could_ make a case for illiterate."

He's helpless — _really_ — and thoroughly thick, but Millicent can't help but crack a very, _very_ fleeting smile at that pitiful attempt at humour, her grin extending across the washed-over plains of her cheeks.

And then in what she would later consider a moment of weakness, Millicent grabs the copper door handle, swings the door wide open, and fists Weasley's fluffy and homemade Christmas jumper that had a big green 'R' plastered across it, dragging him in the bathroom with her and ignoring his high-pitched squeal.

Ron practically pants out coarsely as he rubs a spot on his chest with a wince, "Who knew a small girl like you had so much strength in one arm?"

Millicent blanches. "What'd you just say?"

"So much strength in one arm?" He creases his dark eyebrows, connecting a flurry of freckles.

" _No_ , before that."

"Who knew a small girl like you. . .?"

"Small girl, like me." She blinks, once, twice.

Weasley takes it upon himself to turn the colour of his hair, scratching at the back of his neck as he glances at her from underneath his red veiled eyes.

"Listen, I was never good at this whole ' _comfort_ ' thing. You see, I grew up with a house full of brothers, who'd sooner castrate me then have me mumble some comforting bull," he quickly explains, but Millicent is too busy staring at the tiny white scar by his mouth to understand much anyways. "But—"

"Just shut up, Weasley," Millicent finally snaps with as much spite she could muster. It was weak, even she could admit that.

Silence. They're staring at each other with something flickering between them, and it seems like the jolly jubilant aura from outside forgot to seep into the confinements of the bathroom walls. Very awkward _silence_.

"Er, then can I take a piss now?" Weasley asks callously, eyeing around.

She smiles — and doesn't try to hide it behind her clammy size nine fingers and ebony hair and tear-streaked face. "Happy Christmas, Ron."

* * *

 _a/n: yay for awk ron_


	4. ginny x cormac

**. . .**

* * *

 **ginny weasley x cormac mclaggen**

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 _"Blue Christmas"_

 _by optimise_

* * *

"This was a mistake." She's not lying through her slightly crooked teeth, _honestly_ , because it was — _they_ were — a mistake, forged from the depths of her insecurity and the chasms of his loneliness.

Ginny takes a long, drawn-out drag of her bud — fluttering her eyes close as the grey smoke engulfs her once again in a hefty exhale. It's utterly abhorring — trust her, she _knows_ , especially after her mother's incessant prowling around her purses to chuck all her packs of cigarettes in the fireplace before she ends up 'drowning her lungs to oblivion' like the spoilt, petulant child she is. But, to Ginny, everyone dies, _anyways_ — who cares if she got there a little faster (because slow and steady _does not_ win the race).

Cormac grabs her bud, flicks it towards the floor of the dimly-lit balcony, and crushes it underneath his dark bruin leather flats. "You said that last time, _sweetheart_."

She scowls and pulls out another coffin nail, placing it between her tattering teeth before groping around the pocket of her jeans for her lighter. "I _meant_ it last time as well."

"Highly unlikely." Cormac scrunches his nose, leaning his elbows against the cool, metal bars etching around the half-moon balcony. "You know, you're going to kill yourself like that."

An unrestrained scoff leaves her mouth. "And who cares — _you_?"

His silence is tantalising, and she watches his golden hair flow in the brisk wind. He reminds her of goldilocks in a way — absolutely naive and trusting and all-too-eager to eat his feelings away.

" _Please_ , McLaggen, _spare_ me the sympathy," Ginny drawls, taking a short drag before hacking away. "You _barely_ have a doting bone in your damn body."

"Don't make presumptions about my feelings, Weasley," he snaps back — all bark and no bite. "And who said I _cared_? I'm simply stating it how I see it, that you're going to kill yourself by suffocating your lungs like that everyday."

"Down, boy," Ginny chirps with a dark laugh. "I don't need another guard dog, for I already have about six of those handy."

" _Oh_ , yeah, _definitely_." His voice is oozing with that same sultry and smug tone that made her want to sleep with the man in the first place. It's absolutely fiery and furious and toe-curling and stomach-clenching, in the best and worst ways possible. "That's why you almost _drowned_ under their watch when you were twelve, _for God's sake_. How long did it take before one of your saviour brothers noticed you were missing? Twenty minutes, an hour?"

She's mad now — absolutely _enraged_ — that he would bring up her reluctantly spoken about past, one that was scorned with Riddle holding her head under the murky lake water until all she could feel was the liquid fill up her lungs and all she could see was the blurred edges of the dock glaze over.

And the worst part of the whole ordeal was that she had _liked it_. Being on the brink of death was almost endearing to the fact that none of her family ever paid a second glance until then. After that, they were all ' _Gin, you mustn't stress your lungs_ ' and ' _Ginny, you know we love you, right?_ ' and ' _Ginevra, we're so glad you're okay!_ '.

It's fucking sickening. The kind of gut-dropping feeling you get when watching serials on documented cases of infanticide by homicidal and crack-addicted mothers or when clicking through television channels, only to end up on a well-placed and sappy commercial of a dog with a missing eye _needing_ to be adopted.

"You know what—" She points a bony finger at McLaggen's chest. " _Fuck_ you."

And in barely-concealed contempt, he grits out past his chattering jaw, "Good thing you already did, biscuit. We might not have had time, _oh_ , with your busy schedule advancing on premature death and all."

"Don't you _dare_ try to act like some bloody Christmas Saint when all you do is pine over your unrequited love interest," Ginny retorts, quick and lashing. " _Oh — Hermione Granger, what a perfect little angel, so soft and pure and innocent and chaste_. Give me a break. You're just an egotistical snob with an affinity towards untainted girls."

Cormac barely quivers, merely shrugs a shoulder. "And you're just a bitter woman who'd rather drown in drugs than admit it hurts watching her _precious_ childhood love shack up with a narcissistic rich bitch instead of you."

She laughs, craning her head back and full-on chortling before slowly but surely, it turns into a wrack of sobs clenching her chest.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" Ginny whispers, and she can see her warm, lingering breath in a puff of dank air. She sniffles and wipes crassly at the corners of her eyes with her white-knuckled fist.

"What does?" he mumbles, standing up to full stature to stretch his arms and expose his lean torso.

"Being in love with a person who'll never feel the same way." Ginny spares a glance over at the man who'd offer a side of his bed to any girl if they so _politely_ asked, on their knees, _of course_.

Cormac looks at her — _really_ looks at her — with all intents and purposes into her wide, red-rimmed brown eyes. He's mulling over her words, she can tell. His tongue is making circles around the swollen gums of his cheeks, and his too white teeth worry at his bottom lip. It hurts to stare at him for too long — like a burning wound, slowly creeping up on you until all you're left with is an ugly scar and a hell of a story — so she glances away (it's easier that way).

He's breathing quite loudly, taking up her atmosphere and mind with his sweet peppermint breath against the bare skin of her shoulder and the flowing red hair down her back.

"No, it doesn't hurt," he mumbles so quietly that she wouldn't have heard him if she wasn't already listening intently. "It bloody burns."

Ginny shuffles her feet because anything is better than freezing up against the silence following his words. She couldn't help but _think_ — No. Impossible. Unbelievable. Never. No. No. _No._

"Yeah, tell me about it," is all she replies.

And his answering, dry laugh rings through her head for days to come, haunting her fantasies and dreams and nightmares until all Ginny can think about is the crack in his voice.

* * *

 **. . .**


	5. katie x marcus

**. . .**

* * *

 **katie bell x marcus flint**

* * *

 _"_ _All I Want for Christmas is You (to Love Me)"_

 _by optimise_

* * *

Katie crushes the butterscotch biscuit to smithereens between her fingers, anger quickly flushing over her face as she tries (and fails) not to stare at the grey-eyed and dark-haired man across the room. It's useless, even she can admit that much, being in love with someone who _clearly_ didn't share the same feeling.

And now, as she watches Marcus be an utter flirt with Cho Chang over the red and green meringues stationed on the marble counter, she wants to hurl herself at him — to snog him to death or choke him — at this point, _anything_ would work, as long as Cho fucking Chang stopped caressing his forearms.

They're like a paradigm for unhealthy couples. He would return home from parading around with his international rugby team and fall into her bed — not that Katie minded. And she would find comfort in sobbing over partially hard baguette and smelly gouda cheese because Marcus _forever single_ Flint would never commit to her in the way she wanted.

Even after their last row — which had been some bull from him about her spending too much time with 'little sissy Ollie' and concerning him wasting his days away with his 'two blubbering idiots that he calls friends' — Katie still felt hopeless in her swooning.

It's funny how she's pining over Marcus at the same place they met. Malfoy had nearly killed her four years ago, accidentally running her over with a shopping trolley at a supermarket, and he forced her to have him pay for any reparations. She had been chatting with him after her hospital visit for a couple minutes when Marcus Flint had shown himself into Malfoy's house — beaming in all his prideful, luscious glory.

Of course, she's seen the man on plenty of the covers of Sport's Magazines — and even Katie _can attest_ to the man's lung capacity in the most raunchy of states — due to his familiarity in the rugby league. But watching him tower over Malfoy's lean body with a smug smirk on his face, and glancing at him kiss her knuckles when the blond introduced them, and looking at his arse as he set down the bottle of red wine in Malfoy's kitchen during their first encounter was enough.

Katie was _enamoured_. And Marcus Flint was her drug.

It didn't take much for him to return her lusting feelings. She guesses it was the way she was untainted and pure that appealed to him. He was first _everything_. The first man she's engaged in something besides mild kissing — as a twenty-two year old virgin, Katie expected him to chortle a the mere fact, but he merely smiled and loved her till dawn rose. The first boy that she introduced to her parents — in which Katie's dad fawned over the man just as much as she had and inquired when he was going to have to walk her down the aisle. And her first love — which is why whenever she would see pictures of him on gossip blogs about his amorous happenings in Brazil or in New Zealand, she'd worry her lip and ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach.

About seven more minutes of her chancing glances over at her on-again off-again boyfriend lover type thing, Katie feels inclined to ditch Malfoy's party before she turns into a blobbing mess of drunk limbs and snotty tears.

Stupid Adrian Pucey and his meddling. _Oh, Katie, he's a complete mop without you. Oh, Katie, he misses you_ so much _. Oh, Katie, just talk to him on Christmas, won't you?_ Stupid. Stupid. _Stupid._

She attempts to leave with her head down, slipping on her rabbit fur gloves and buttoning up her merlot coat to the neckline. Adjusting her beanie, Katie glides to the door, staring at her muddy boots because anything was easier than looking at him.

Twenty steps later, and she's down the hall, nearing the exit of the building when—

"Going somewhere, Bell?" his voice calls out from behind her.

She freezes. Both her heart and her body.

"Yeah," she responds, not turning around to stare at him.

Her feet move on their own, tracing pathways to the glass door, when he speaks up again, "I thought you loved Christmas. Why're you heading off so early?"

 _It's natural_ , she tells herself. _Being pissed is natural._ So, when she flutters her eyes shut, swings her body around, and snaps, "I thought _you_ loved me. Guess we're both wrong then."

His jaw clenches and that vein in his neck becomes overly prominent once again. She once spent days kissing that spot; it hurts to think about.

"Don't _you_ dare—"

" _You're_ the one who followed me out here, Flint," she grits back, crudely shoving her hands into her long pockets filled with spare change.

They're at an impasse — stock-still and staring.

"I — I just. . . happy holidays," he whispers finally, not blinking as his dark veils of lashes hit the brow bone of his milk skin.

"Happy _fucking_ holidays?" Katie bites back. "You know what? I don't need this right now."

"I don't know what you want me to say," Marcus says, honestly. Ah, the first truth in their relationship. "I didn't. . ."

"Don't." She holds up a hand and breathes deeply, feeling the slight frigid air burst into her chest. "Just don't."

Marcus smirks at her — and a for a very brief second, it almost seems normal. "I always love when you get bossy."

"Shut up, Flint." But her heart flips. And her head is messy. And she missed — _misses_ — him more than she misses the air she breathes. And more than she feels the blood coursing through her veins. And more than she can honestly say when closing her eyes and thinking about her world as broken — because without _him_ , it's not whole.

He smiles — and it's crooked and veiny and lopsided — but she still finds the burrow in her heart to return the gesture.

"But I love _you_ , Bell."

A long, drawn-out pause. In a quick exhale, "I know."

Marcus doesn't even stutter. "And I miss you."

"I _know_."

"Then why can't we get back together?" he groans, and he sounds like a petulant child. It would be funny if she didn't feel like crying.

She shakes her head, and every. Single. Motion. _Hurts._

"That's not an answer, Bell," he mumbles, sliding up to her and holding the top of her arms.

"Us breaking up in the future is inevitable." Katie chokes on her words, but perseveres. "I don't want it to hurt. I don't want _us_ to hurt."

"It won't," Marcus reassures, pulling her body closer until she's engulfed by his smell. Honey jojoba — because he's a pansy who loves exotic soap baskets more than his rugby trophy collection.

"It will."

"It _won't_. Trust me."

He leans in to capture her lips with hers and it's hard and steady and swift and meaningful. It's different. The way he's speaking to her through soft caresses is _different_.

And maybe for now, that's enough.


	6. draco x hermione

**. . .**

* * *

 **draco malfoy x hermione granger**

* * *

 _"The Most Wistful Time of Year"_

 _by optimise_

* * *

"Granger," Draco warns, all too familiar with this phase of her drunk off of rum-laced eggnog persona — she just gets a little _too_ grabby, with both his hair and his arse cheeks. "We don't have time for this."

He shouldn't be surprised — just minutes ago, Hermione dragged him into his room after trying to get a feel of him in the kitchen.

She giggles — no, like, _actually_ giggles like a gossiping schoolgirl — before sitting on his lap and straddling his legs adorned in tight black denims. Draco has to steady her with an embrace around her waist, fingers gripping her evergreen corduroy skirt with all the power he could muster. Her hands, soft as silk and tender as goose down pillows, cup his cheeks before trying to suck off his mouth with ardour, which ended in a thoroughly misplaced snog to only half of his lips.

"You're nose is s'cute, Mafloy — Malalfoy, no, _Mal_ foy," Granger says when she leans back, before chasing his pointed nose with a nip of her teeth. Draco winces because who knew she also became half-vampire when she gets a little sloshed. "I love you s'much, Dray-co. _So_ much."

"Yes, Granger—"

She pouts before cutting him off with another kiss to the corner of his mouth. "My name is Her-her-my-oh-kneeny."

As Granger leans in again to latch her cold lips against the base of his jaw, practically trying to eat him at the jugular, Draco ponders how rubbish his idea of convincing Hermione to ease up a bit at the party was.

All week, she had been on his case, though, so it wasn't his fault that he needed to take drastic measures to ease the tension between her eyebrows. Every single day leading up to his yearly party was all: _Draco, you have to buy the right amount of fake snow to drizzle on the pines in your living room_ ; and _Draco, you have to arrange for the ice sculpture deliverers to come at one PM, not two PM, not twelve PM, but one_ ; and _Draco, did you wish your mother 'Happy Holidays' yet?_ ; and _Draco, we have have have to wear matching reindeer jumpers; I need a picture of us for my mantle!_

While Draco wanted to just lean back on his four-poster bed for a _single minute_ and breathe, but Granger's constant nagging and fiery temper made it near to impossible to even get a decent rest at night these days.

Their relationship had become all slammed doors and heated gropes in the loo and angry, hostile yelling and soft sounds of ' _I love yous_ ' whispered into sweaty necks while cuddling.

He missed the days when she would laugh — paired with that ugly, yet fucking adorable snort of hers — at all his lame jokes, and she would tickle the spot behind his neck or under his navel or by his ankle until they would kiss each other silly. And it was all sunshine and rainbows or some shit like that.

It didn't help that Blaise was on his case about finally introducing Granger to his family — for a proper sit-down meal at his manor in Wiltshire. There's a brief thought running through his mind that is preventing Draco from driving her all the way to the house he grew up in, and it's that his parents hate commoners as much as they hate lint on their cashmere jumpers or dirt on the bottom of their leather clicking shoes.

' _Purely uncivilised_ ,' his father used to voice through the tall halls of the drawing room. ' _Tainting the very roots of this country_.'

And his mother would agree with a guffaw, sneering her nose up as they tutted among their rich cronies about the wavering economy, and Swiss skiing trips in snowed-over cottages, and the hundred-pound brandy locked safely in the musky cellar.

Draco sighs audibly, pulling Hermione from her job of peppering small kisses near the hollow by his ear.

"Hm?" she hums, smiling widely at him before mussing up his hair. Granger begins rubbing her knickers over the bulge in his trousers and her striped knit top is scrunching upwards towards her soft breasts and her hands go to stroke the inside of his thigh, all in an attempt to coerce a fuck out of him.

And all he _should_ be able to think about is how bloody attractive and gorgeous and downright beautiful his girlfriend is with scarlet flushed cheeks and the hair she straightened just for tonight because she was _too damn excited_ to sit down for a mere second. But all he _can_ think about is how badly he wants her to wear his last name forever and ever and ever, and how he can't let her do that because his parents would sooner defenestrate him than allow him to marry a girl with an unrecognisable last name.

"Mafloy!" her bossy voice — which gets him utterly hot and bothered in the bedroom — shouts at him. "Kish me, already."

"Granger, you're pissed off your mind right now," Draco says and visibly watches her swollen pink lips start to quiver. "Maybe you should get some sleep."

"You're not v'ry nice, are you?" Hermione whispers, casting her gaze downwards. "You n'ver listen to me and you never kiss me when I'm sad and you never ever take me to your parents' parties."

Draco turns his head to stare at her so fast at the last one that he's genuinely surprised he didn't snap his neck in the process. "Granger. . . is there something you want to talk about?"

"Are you embarrashed of me?" she murmurs, shifting in his lap — and accidentally rubbing on the tip of his prick in a way that makes him have to bite his lip to stop himself from releasing a drawn-out groan.

In a surge of confidence, Draco leans to rest his forehead on hers, their noses barely rubbing against each other in one of her favourite pastimes of giving each other 'eskimo kisses' as she deemed them.

"I _love_ you, Hermione," he whispers against her lips, pecking them with every syllable. "I know I'm an utter fool and never say that, but I do. You're my _everything_. I'd never be embarrassed of you. I'm embarrassed of my parents, who think you're no better than a drenched rat in a gutter."

"Hey!" Granger cries out loudly. "That's really mean. If anything, I'm a cute drenched rat. You tell them that, Malfoy. That'll show 'em."

"I will, Granger. I will." His hand reaches out to stroke her scarlet cheeks, tracing down the bridge of her freckled nose to where her pulse lie at the hollow of her jaw.

He hopes she won't mind taking a little hungover trip on Boxing Day to Wiltshire.

And then he smiles till his cheeks hurt and hugs her till all he feels is her heartbeat thump thump thumping against his chest and all he hears is her drunken snoring.


	7. colin x parvati

_a/n:_ thanks so much to everyone for all the reviews and i hope _everyone_ has a great holiday season!

* * *

 **colin creevey x parvati patil**

* * *

 _"I Wanna Kiss You So"_

 _by optimise_

* * *

She's not coming. She's not _coming_. _She's_ not coming. She's _not_ coming. _She's not coming._

It stings like a paper cut. Terribly useless and utterly despicable because when push comes to shove, all one can do is place one of those cheap latex-free bandaids in an attempt to nurse the wound and just _wait_. Wait till the pain recedes to a dull ache. And then to a scar. A _boring_ and _not even_ a good party time story kind of scar. The one bearing Colin's heart right about now.

Colin flickers through the all the polaroids he's taken tonight — one of Blaise and Neville in a shocking snog, one of Terry boot piss-drunk and dancing on the counters, one of Luna swaying on the dance floor alongside a giddy Theo, and one of him by himself. He sighs; regardless, his mind trickles to the one girl he's been waiting for.

The one he's _always_ waiting for.

There's a part of him that has a brief thought — telling him how much he should forget about his best friend, his comrade, his desired lover with the most amount of effort he can muster — but it's _fleeting_ and _small_ , drilling his mind in the tiniest of places.

Colin had always been in love with Parvati; and, he finds he _always_ will. No matter how futile it seems to be.

His fingers glaze over some more of his shiny and overexposed polaroids, grinning with a closed mouth at the absurdity of watching people through memories. They're constant, but momentary. A snapshot in a person's mind — held forever. And Colin can't tell if that's a good or bad thing.

"Hey, still holding up?" a voice from behind him asks sympathetically; Colin already cringes at the disgustingly patronising sound.

"Yeah," Colin says back to Nigel, "she'll be coming soon."

Nigel Wolpert slips into the seat next to Colin, a flute of sparkling strawberry apple cider sloshing over the rim of the glass. "You okay, mate?"

Colin lowers his head; for, he feels a faint, hot feeling running rivers at the back of his eyes. He _isn't_ going to cry — he _refuses_ to ever do such a thing — but he steadies the pace of his heart with a few well-placed deep breaths.

"Fine," Colin feigns complacency because it's easier that way, "how about yourself?"

He tucks the plethora of glossy photographs back into the open pocket on his buttoned shirt and shifts so his heel rests uneasily on his jabbing kneecap.

"I feel like I'm about to knock out for eighteen hours straight," Nigel says in a heavy sigh.

"That's—" Colin scratches his nose, "— _interesting_ , truly."

Nigel begins to babble; it simply pains Colin into rubbing his temples.

"—so you know _I_ started the whole frisbee—"

A _familiar_ face from the opposite end of the room gnaws at Colin to stop feeling sorry for himself and to start pacing over toward her.

"Hey, Nigel?" Colin quickly blurts out, clambering to a standing stance in a hearty effort, stopped by his two left feet. He trips fast and furious, steadying himself before saying, "I have to, uh, go water that plant."

"Oh—? Uh, yeah, sure."

And then Colin is gliding, shuffling, jogging, briskly walking, _practically sprinting_ toward her; she's laughing — and she looks absolutely _ethereal_.

Parvati catches his eye as he passes the cheese platter and the sticky vodka-laced floors, and smiles — full and bright. He reaches her in an instant — and he wonders if it's always been like this, like two opposite magnets connecting after a long time apart.

"Hi," he whispers, and he's busy scanning her golden eyes for something tangible to grasp onto.

"Hi," she murmurs back.

"I — I missed you." And then it's easy to see the culpability outlined in her face — because he had told her weeks ago how much he was — _is_ — in love with her, while she had merely stuttered out a weak response of _staying friends_ and _not venturing into a romance_ because she wasn't — _isn't_ — ready.

The sound of a soft sleigh music jingles in the back, and a person laughs boisterously in the corner, and the rainbow-coloured lights twinkle knowingly on the dozens of evergreens — but he's too busy staring at her to notice much, anyway.

In what seems like a minute long, she exhales in a quick, short breath, "I missed you, too, 'Lin."

"Look," he starts out as he's planned all evening, "I know you probably don't want to talk to me right now because, _you know_ , but I just want to say that after everything we've been through, I understand if you want to be friends and— _mmph_!"

And then she's kissing him — _on the lips!_ — with feather-soft and pious intentions, cupping his face with two hands. It's _everything_ he's ever imagined and more, as if he couldn't put a name to _it_ , couldn't put a name to _them_.

He hears Lavender give out a feisty hoot in the back, urging them to _get a room or something_ , but he's too busy fina- _fucking_ -lly running his calloused hands in her soft, soft black hair that fell in a tangle of locks down her back and over the ridges of her spine.

He wonders what _in the hell_ he's been doing for his entire life because kissing her seems like something he could've thrived on _ages ago_. And when he finally cups the nape of her neck, bringing her closer, a dulcet sigh is exchanged in their mouths. Seconds and minutes and hours and days and months and _years_ of friendship seems to all lead up to _this_ , to _them_.

When he finally slowly leans backs, he makes sure to tip his forehead against hers and grin, slowly, sultrily, in what probably seems like a lovesick smile — he doesn't care much, though.

"I guess you must've really missed me, then," he says, almost cockily, but she laughs anyway, sending vibrations through his own chest.

She laces their hands together and swings them by their sides, joyfully and without inhibition. He feels like he's sixteen again.

" _Let's_ dance," Parvati pleas, dragging him to the centre of the room in an effort to more prominently convince him.

"I guess." He grins foolishly, like she's the key to his salvation.


	8. neville x blaise

**. . .**

* * *

 **neville longbottom x blaise zabini**

* * *

 _"Santa Baby, Oh, Santa Baby_ _"_

 _by optimise_

* * *

The faint dark laughs surrounding the scarlet velvet-covered table echoes through the room; the only other sound being the soft murmurs of guests from down the hall and the static, crackly notes of Christmas jazz music emanating from the room's vinyl player. The room seems seductively dark underneath the soft golden light, drawing contours on the men's faces in a penumbra of etched features.

Neville finds himself grimacing over the rim of his thin flute of eggnog, for his ugly Christmas jumper all of a sudden felt too itchy and suffocating around his sensitive neck. One can only hope he doesn't get a rash the next morning. He _loathes_ putting on ointment like his grandma had always chastised him to do so.

Fuzzy words of the game of truth or dare — as if they're raunchy thirteen-year-olds giggling over first kisses or something — over the poker game cut through Neville's ears, but he's too busy scanning over the plethora of oil paintings of sunflowers, purposely painted into a frazzled mess, on the cream walls to listen in.

But when a distinct, drawling voice finally says, "I wouldn't be opposed to taking _anyone_ in this room," Neville snaps his head to the side, eyeing Blaise Zabini with tangible interest.

Most of the room erupts into a raucous chorus of chortles, but Neville uncomfortably shifts in the squishy chair he's taken to sitting on.

Blaise feels his hot gaze and meets Neville's own eyes, quirking his eyebrows up in one silent question — _problem?_

Neville shrugs to let the dark man know that, in fact, there was no _problem_. But a slow, sultry smile appears on Zabini's face — as he could possibly delve into Neville's mind in a fleeting flicker of his eyes.

It was fucking scary.

"Longbottom, unless you plan on taking a picture to rest your eyes from staring anytime soon, just ask the question that is so furiously cranking in your mind."

 _Of course_ the fact that Blaise Zabini could be into men is _cranking_ away in his mind, body, and _soul_. Because for the last couple of months, watching the person on his left dive into a flurry of girls like he was the lawnmower grazing through a field of grass said anything _but_ — said _absolutely anything_ but the inconspicuous truth he just admitted to a room full of people with no qualms attached.

"You like. . ." Neville trails off before leaning in to whisper in a more conspiratorial way, ". . .men?"

Blaise doesn't seem thrown off by the question at all, his dark eyes sparkling as he cranes his head back and laughs. It takes a great deal of power for Neville to tear his own eyes away from the rippling muscles coursing through Zabini's neck.

"I'm a lover of _people_ , Longbottom," Blaise drawls, taking a careful sip from his tumbler while keeping his gaze steady at Neville, "regardless of something as so insignificant as _genitalia_ , for that matter."

" _Oh_."

"Deal Longbottom into the next round, Pucey," Blaise suddenly orders, placing his amber-filled crystal down on the edge of the table and leaning back confidently in his chair. Adrian Pucey merely raised his eyebrows, passing the job of shuffling of the cards onto Montague, who was half-sloshed and grinning like a fox.

Neville gulps heavily — his heart not stopping its pitter patter when Blaise leans into the hollow by his ear, his dank breath hot against the nape of Neville's neck.

"Want to place a bet?" Blaise whispers; Neville, not turned in the man's direction, can only nod in agreement. And then in a slow purr of velvet syllables, "If I win, you'll do any one thing _I_ want. And if you win. . . I'll do anything _you_ want."

"That seems bloody scary." Neville turns slightly. "Anything seems like a lot of options."

"Take a risk, won't you?" he almost coos.

It's hard for Neville to breathe, and it's hard to feel his palms gripping his knee, and it's _so_ hard for him to focus in on the drumming in his chest.

In what he would later consider to be either his worst fucking mistake or his dream come nightmare, Neville finds himself nodding along to the rhythm of his staccato heartbeat.

Montague finally deals the cards, the room shocked into silence engulfed by the slapping of the deck beside each willing player — Neville, Blaise, Cassius, Adrian, Graham, Seamus, and Daphne.

Round after round passes with blank expressions and wistful sighs. The slow, itching feeling of Neville losing creeps up his spine when he catches sight of Blaise's cocky face quirking up his eyebrows at the receiving of a certain card stationed between his middle and forefinger.

And, finally, after moments of both torment and uneasy shifting—

Blaise lets out a feral grin that encompasses his entire face. He places down his cards in a staggered row, the royal flush prominently standing out beside the gathering crowd of poker chips scattered around the table. A hoot comes out from both Montague and Warrington's mouths — both of them sharing a knowing glance. His long dark hands reach out to sweep the chips, but he's too busy smirking as he raises his head to the boy sitting next to him.

Their eyes meet in a silent conversation; Neville's laced with tangible fear, Blaise's gleaming with ferocious intent.

Paralysed, frozen, and utterly stunned into a statue-like stilling.

And Neville knows he's fucking wrecked.


End file.
